


old mistakes have got nothing on us

by Ingi



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, BAMF Patroclus, Boys In Love, Happy Ending, Inspired by Foreshadowing, M/M, Minor Violence, POV Achilles, Smitten Achilles, The gods speak to Achilles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 13:28:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9183646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ingi/pseuds/Ingi
Summary: He falls on his knees and begs.I should have known. How his eyes shone when they spoke of Meleager. How he did not look at Odysseus, but he did not look at me, either.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The summary was going to be _Patroclus makes for a lovely Cleopatra, although not a very historically accurate one. He was alright until the begging, but then it only went downhill._ Then I realized it'd fool readers into thinking this is not angsty at all.
> 
> Forgive me for this. I was re-reading the Song of Achilles and stumbled upon that perfect piece of foreshadowing that I hadn't even noticed on the first go. My brain went to exotic places, and the rest is history.  
> (I hope you saw that completely, absolutely, definitely intentional pun, because I won't be repeating it.)

He falls on his knees and begs.

I should have known. How his eyes shone when they spoke of Meleager. How he did not look at Odysseus, but he did not look at me, either.

I remember sprawling on the floor of my father’s main room, Patroclus in a chair next to me, and I nudging his feet with mine in an odd courtship neither of us understood in that moment, nor until much later. And Father, retelling the story of Meleager and his pride.

But pride and honor are not the same thing. Patroclus should know. They should all know, but especially him. He should know what this means to me.

Father didn’t finish the story that day. I’m not certain he ever did. We must have heard it somewhere else, perhaps from Chiron. He always charged his words with meaning, and he could read fate in the stars. He must have warned us, but I wasn’t listening.

If Patroclus wasn’t either, he certainly has now. Patroclus. _PatroclusPatroclusPatroclus_. He could ask anything of me and he’d have it. But gods, not this. Not this.

Cleopatra couldn’t have looked even a fraction this beautiful, couldn’t have inspired even a fraction of this love that overflows me. Mother wants me to be a god to the world, but I’d rather be Patroclus’ and live on his worship only. I never feel more powerful than when I touch him, never more divine than when he laughs because of something I have said and his mouth prays for me to kiss it.

 _Anything but this_ , I’ve said to him, but he doesn’t rise. His head falls and hides his lovely face from me, but his shoulders shake, and it’s then when I realize he’s mourning, mourning already for those I will not save. Mourning something else, perhaps, something that has broken in him, either now or earlier in the war, when he first saw me in that godly skin I’m always half afraid to inhabit despite my mother’s wishes.

Patroclus weeps and I don’t say a word, but kneel with him. I do not dare to touch him, nor do I ask him to look at me. I don’t want to face whatever emotion must be in his eyes right now.

“Please,” he whispers, once more. My mouth tastes of salt and poison. I do not answer him. “Please. Achilles. Most beloved. Please.”

“My honor-” I remind him, quietly, pressing at last my lips to his hair, resting my hands on the crooks of his elbows.

“His apology or his death,” he says, and that is not what I expected him to say, not like this.

It is not with resignation nor anger nor sadness that he speaks, but something else, dark smoke curling around the blade of his words, and I recognize the voice that beckons me into my head to _fightfightfight_ until everything crumbles. I was not made to feel fear, but if I did, it’d probably be like this.

“Patroclus.”

“No,” he replies, before I even begin to voice it. He meets my gaze again, and it reassures me that, for all my faults, I’ve been forgiven once again. He will mend my wrong and ask for no apologies. My Patroclus. “If you must have one or the other…” he starts, and does not finish. “For our people,” he finally whispers.

I can’t let him. I won’t let him. He never tires of comparing me to the sun and all that is beautiful in this world, but he is my light, he is too precious for me to risk him, and I won’t, not for our people or for all the wretched wars in all times.

He takes my hands from him and kisses the palms, then stands up. I could easily stop him, grab him and hold him against my chest as Troy burns, watch him burn too in the circle of my arms, watch me setting him on fire. I’m about to do so, for all it rips me inside.

But then, I hear it. _In a different world, you do not listen. In a different world, he dies_.

My fingers slip from his wrist.

“Come watch,” he says, defiant, _alive_.

And I go.

Agamemnon was not expecting him. That is the only reason he catches him out of guard, tugs his own sword out of his belt and slices his neck with it.

I don’t stand there to watch him choke in his own blood. Patroclus is shaking and staring at the weapon like he’s never seen one before in his life, and the soldiers around us have fallen deadly silent.

But as I reach him, he turns to me, the wildest I’ve ever seen him, and lets the sword fall to grip my arms.

“You will fight,” he proclaims, and the silence breaks as the men cheer, loud, drunk on hysterics and hope. There will be not retribution with relief so heavy in the air and the enemy’s blades so close to our necks.

We will live. For today, at least.


End file.
